Demetrius. Friedrich von Schiller

I grasped it as my only stay, and pressed it

         With passionate devotion to my lips.

      [The Poles intimate their sympathy by dumb show.

         The jewel was observed; its sheen and worth

         Awakened curiosity and wonder.

         They set me free, and questioned me; yet still

         I could not call to memory a time

         I had not worn the jewel on my person.

         Now it so happened that three Boiars who

         Had fled from the resentment of their Czar

         Were on a visit to my lord at Sambor.

         They saw the trinket, – recognized it by

         Nine emeralds alternately inlaid

         With amethysts, to be the very cross

         Which Ivan Westislowsky at the font

         Hung on the neck of the Czar's youngest son.

         They scrutinized me closer, and were struck

         To find me marked with one of nature's freaks,

         For my right arm is shorter than my left.

         Now, being closely plied with questions, I

         Bethought me of a little psalter which

         I carried from the cloister when I fled.

         Within this book were certain words in Greek

         Inscribed there by the Igumen himself.

         What they imported was unknown to me,

         Being ignorant of the language. Well, the psalter

         Was sent for, brought, and the inscription read.

         It bore that Brother Wasili Philaret

         (Such was my cloister-name), who owned the book,

         Was Prince Demetrius, Ivan's youngest son,

         By Andrei, an honest Diak, saved

         By stealth in that red night of massacre.

         Proofs of the fact lay carefully preserved

         Within two convents, which were pointed out.

         On this the Boiars at my feet fell down,

         Won by the force of these resistless proofs,

         And hailed me as the offspring of their Czar.

         So from the yawning gulfs of black despair

         Fate raised me up to fortune's topmost heights.

         And now the mists cleared off, and all at once

         Memories on memories started into life

         In the remotest background of the past.

         And like some city's spires that gleam afar

         In golden sunshine when naught else is seen,

         So in my soul two images grew bright,

         The loftiest sun-peaks in the shadowy past.

         I saw myself escaping one dark night,

         And a red lurid flame light up the gloom

         Of midnight darkness as I looked behind me

         A memory 'twas of very earliest youth,

         For what preceded or came after it

         In the long distance utterly was lost.

         In solitary brightness there it stood

         A ghastly beacon-light on memory's waste.

         Yet I remembered how, in later years,

         One of my comrades called me, in his wrath

         Son of the Czar. I took it as a jest,

         And with a blow avenged it at the time.

         All this now flashed like lightning on my soul,

         And told with dazzling certainty that I

         Was the Czar's son, so long reputed dead.

         With this one word the clouds that had perplexed

         My strange and troubled life were cleared away.

         Nor merely by these signs, for such deceive;

         But in my soul, in my proud, throbbing heart

         I felt within me coursed the blood of kings;

         And sooner will I drain it drop by drop

         Than bate one jot my title to the crown.

ARCHBISHOP OF GNESEN

         And shall we trust a scroll which might have found

         Its way by merest chance into your hands

         Backed by the tale of some poor renegades?

         Forgive me, noble youth! Your tone, I grant,

         And bearing, are not those of one who lies;

         Still you in this may be yourself deceived.

         Well may the heart be pardoned that beguiles

         Itself in playing for so high a stake.

         What hostage do you tender for your word?

DEMETRIUS

         I tender fifty, who will give their oaths, —

         All Piasts to a man, and free-born Poles

         Of spotless reputation, – each of whom

         Is ready to enforce what I have urged.

         There sits the noble Prince of Sendomir,

         And at his side the Castellan of Lublin;

         Let them declare if I have spoke the truth.

ARCHBISHOP OF GNESEN

         How seem these things to the august Estates?

         To the enforcement of such numerous proofs

         Doubt and mistrust, methinks, must needs give way.

         Long has a creeping rumor filled the world

         That Dmitri, Ivan's son, is still alive.

         The Czar himself confirms it by his fears.

         – Before us stands a youth, in age and mien

         Even to the very freak that nature played,

         The lost heir's counterpart, and of a soul

         Whose noble stamp keeps rank with his high claims.

         He left a cloister's precincts, urged by strange,

         Mysterious promptings; and this monk-trained boy

         Was straight distinguished for his knightly feats.

         He shows a trinket which the Czarowitsch

         Once wore, and one that never left his side;

         A written witness, too, by pious hands,

         Gives us assurance of his princely birth;

         And, stronger still, from his unvarnished speech

         And open brow truth makes his best appeal.

         Such traits as these deceit doth never don;

         It masks its subtle soul in vaunting words,

         And in the high-glossed ornaments of speech.

         No longer,